


Sartorial Differences (or 'Why the Doctor got his blue coat and other stories')

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Clothing, Episode Tag, M/M, Post Serial: s143 The Trial of a Time Lord, Remixed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to make "Trial of a Time Lord" make some sort of sense, the Doctor goes back in time to before his trial to ask if the Master would mind doing him a massive favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sartorial Differences (or 'Why the Doctor got his blue coat and other stories')

“Say it,” the Master said, slowly and with infinite amusement, _“again.”_

The Doctor glowered at him. “If I’d know you were going to be so unreasonable-”

“You would still have come,” the Master said, cutting off the protest before it could develop into something unpleasant and unwieldy. He folded his arms, smiled a closed-lipped, deeply pleased smile. “As it happens, Doctor, I believe I'm being very reasonable. I just need you to repeat yourself if I’m to,” he chuckled, “fully understand the situation at hand.” He waited.

“... I _need your help_ ,” the Doctor said, at last, very ungraciously. “And before you say anything, yes, it has to be you. Believe me, if I could ask anyone else in the entire universe I would. _But,_ ” he said, with a glare that suggested he wanted a word with whomever was responsible for this, “ _unfortunately,_ I’ve already seen _you_ helping me. So, now I have to make sure you do. You don’t have to do anything particularly _odious_. Just,” he waved his hand, “round up Mel and Glitz and get them to my trial, expose the Valeyard as my evil future self, that sort of thing. You’ll have to hack your way into the Matrix, of course, but I'm sure that won’t be any trouble: you practically live there if rumour can be believed. Actually,” he exchanged his annoyed expression for a more appealing, helpful one, “I would have thought you’d recognise a perfect opportunity to steal the newest batch of data-”

The Master raised an eyebrow. “Aiding in the theft of state secrets, Doctor?”

“ _No,_ not at all,” the Doctor said: his tone conciliatory, his face suspiciously innocent. “But I’ve seen it happen already, haven’t I?” Here, the manipulative bastard even rested a hand against the Master’s chest; looked up at him. “And, of course, I would be _very_ grateful.”

“ _Really,”_ the Master purred. After years of chasing the Doctor’s last incarnation, of standing at least an arm’s length away from him whilst he trembled with a heady mix of righteous indignation and lust, it was good to have the Doctor invading his personal space again.

“Oh. Yes,” the Doctor said, clearly trying for sincerity. “Definitely.”

“Very well,” the Master said. “I will, of course, require something in return.”

“I might have known,” the Doctor groaned, withdrawing his hand as though he had not dropped in to call on his nemesis with the specific intention of exchanging sexual favours for favours of a less pleasurable nature. As though it was not obvious that he was looking forward to the exchange. “Always the same with you, isn’t it? I expect you want-”

“Your coat,” the Master said pleasantly.

The Doctor stared at him, and the expression on his face was worth spending the night alone. “My coat? My _coat?_ My - What on earth do you want my _coat_ for?”

“That, my dear Doctor, is my affair. You want to be rescued-”

“I do _not_. I simply-”

“ _You_ want to be rescued,” the Master repeated, smiling. “And _I_ ,” he eyed the Doctor, who had taken a step back, “want your _coat_. I may be planning to stage an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, I may wish simply to burn the loathsome object. It’s not your concern what I do with your coat. You will notice, Doctor, that I refer to it as _your_ coat, though, of course, it will be _my_ coat from now on. Do we have a deal, or should we leave the Web of Time to fend for itself?” He raised his eyebrows.

For a moment, he thought the Doctor was actually going to refuse. Then, grumbling and grousing, he removed his eyesore of a coat and handed it over.

“And your waistcoat,” the Master added, folding the coat and draping it over his arm.

“ _What?_ ” the Doctor said, hands flying protectively to his waistcoat: a particularly vile specimen in contrasting checks of orange and purple, complete in its hideousness with an orange watch chain. “No-”

“The Web of Time must feel so grateful to have you as its champion.”

“This is ridiculous,” the Doctor hissed, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat angrily. “I’ve never been so- _There,”_ he added, flinging the garment at the Master. “I hope you’re happy.”

The Master smirked. “You may keep the braces. I look forward to have seeing you at the trial. You can show yourself out?”

“Perfectly well, thank you,” the Doctor said and slammed the door as he left.

*

The trial seemed to take even longer from the outside. The Doctor strolled up and down the corridors, hands in the pockets of his new, blue coat, and tried to feign an interest in his surroundings. Had the designer of this ship’s corridors thought to include a series of paintings, a small flowering shrub, or, indeed, any decoration at all in his designs this might have been possible. As it was, the Doctor soon grew bored, considered whistling, then decided against it.

At long last, the Inquisitor swept out of the hall. She seemed unsurprised to see a later version of a man she’d just left behind fall into step with her, and only said “I suppose you’ve changed your mind and now you want me to let him go,” without so much as a sideways look at the Doctor.

“It seems only fair,” the Doctor agreed. “After all, he didn’t _actually_ manage to steal the Matrix.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“And,” the Doctor said, ignoring that particular point for the moment, because it was a good one, “the information provided by the Master _was_ invaluable in saving an innocent man’s life, and bringing the real criminal to the attention of the court.”

"You are hardly what I would call _innocent_ , Doctor.”

“In general, I agree with you, but, in this case, at least,” the Doctor said airily “I _was_ innocent, and you and your high collared friends would have murdered me, and cheerfully, too, I expect, had it not been for the Master’s timely intervention.”

The Inquisitor slowed to a halt and gave him one of the penetrating looks that had forced so many criminals to confession, and made her famous throughout Capitol.

“I’m not saying he should be let off completely,” the Doctor said, pressing his advantage, “but, in the circumstances… perhaps a small allowance could be made?”

“In the circumstances...” the Inquisitor repeated. “Yes, perhaps it could,” she said with a smile that the Doctor didn’t entirely like the look of, now he thought about it. “As you know, Doctor, we are currently without a President-”

“Oh,” the Doctor said, _“no-”_

“And a High Council,” the Inquisitor continued.

“I _really_ … couldn’t,” the Doctor said, backing away, and consoling himself with the possibility that the Master might very well enjoy his time in the Matrix.

 _“Doctor,”_ the Inquisitor said firmly. “You are a renegade, recently charged with intervention: a charge, may I remind you, that you escaped on the flimsiest of grounds. Do you think I would suggest that you be given a position on the High Council?”

“Well,” the Doctor said, rather defensively, “it hasn’t stopped anyone before-”

The Inquisitor cut him off with another stern look. “All I am asking," she said, "is that you spend six months on Gallifrey during the election period and put your famous brain to good use: helping me choose the right candidates.”

“Six months?” the Doctor asked piteously. _“Six months?_ I’m sure-”

“Six months on Gallifrey,” the Inquisitor repeated, “and I’ll let the Master and Mister Glitz go free immediately. Do we have a deal?”

*

 _“A perfect opportunity to steal the newest batch of data,”_ the Master said coldly, as he was led out of the Matrix by two CIA officials.

“No, doesn’t sound like me at all, does it?” the Doctor said. “I’m rather surprised you fell for it, to tell the truth,” he continued, as the cuffs around the Master’s wrists were opened and removed by the taller of the officials. “Still, that’s the Web of Time for you. You probably couldn’t help yourself. Come on. My TARDIS is just around the corner. I’ll give you a lift to whatever planet you’ve left the shell of your poor TARDIS on.”

For a moment, he thought the Master was going to refuse, which would be ludicrous, if just like him. But, with a dark look at his CIA escort, the Master stepped away from the Matrix door and followed his adversary towards the bay in which the Doctor had left his ship.

“I take it I have you to thank for my release,” he said, once they were out of earshot

“You do,” the Doctor said. “Which, I trust, makes us even for that business with the trial. You can give me my coat back when we reach your TARDIS. Assuming you didn’t burn it, of course, which would be most unfortunate.”

“A matter of opinion, my dear Doctor,” the Master said. “And, I fear, an irrelevant one. You set me up, then released me from your own trap. I believe that makes us — _not_ even.”

“Now, hang on a minute,” the Doctor protested. He stopped outside the door of his police box, and began hunting for the key in his pockets. “I didn’t have to step in on your behalf back there, you know. In fact, I did so at considerable inconvenience to myself.”

“How very generous of you. Tell me, Doctor, what was it you promised them to garner my release? Gold? Knowledge? Or are you simply being forced into another tiresome position of power and responsibility?”

“I’m beginning to think I should have left you to rot,” the Doctor muttered, locating the key at last, and inserting it into the lock.

“Hmm,” the Master smirked. “As I thought. You know, Doctor, I can’t understand why you’re going to such trouble to get your old coat back. The new one is a great improvement, and in such a fetching shade of police box blue.”

“Oh,” the Doctor said, pleased despite himself. “Do you like it? I had it made to the pattern of the last-”

He broke off as the Master started chuckling, and opened the door with a glower. _“In,”_ he said curtly, and stepped aside to let the Master pass.

*

The Master’s TARDIS (or rather, that part of it which had not been in the Matrix with the Master: that part was downloaded onto a tiny data disk, which was currently in the Doctor’s pocket) turned out to be parked on a barren rock about two light years away. To the Doctor’s great relief, his own ship, perhaps sensing the embarrassment her pilot would suffer if she bungled this one, landed at exactly the right spatial and temporal co-ordinates: the tall stone column that was the usual form of the Master’s TARDIS stood, alone, some four or five metres away. The Doctor patted the door of his TARDIS and strode across the rocky surface to the Master’s, after the Master.

“My TARDIS’s data disc, Doctor, if you would be so kind,” the Master said, holding out an expectant hand.

“I want my coat back first,” the Doctor said firmly.

“The coat is in my TARDIS.”

Crossly, the Doctor removed the disc from his pocket and handed it to the Master, who smiled and took it from him. He touched the side of the column lightly and a small slot, the size of the disc, appeared to the left of his gloved hand. He slid the disc home, and the slot disappeared. The TARDIS seemed, momentarily, to consider this new influx of information, then a door appeared in its side, and swung open obediently.

 _“Well?”_ the Doctor demanded, once they were inside. “Where is it?”

“Where is _what_ , Doctor?” the Master said, staring round at the walls of his console room, presumably to make sure they were the same distance apart as when he had last seen them.

“My _coat,_ what do you think I'm talking about?"

“There are nine hundred and forty-two rooms in this TARDIS,” the Master said silkily. He stopped looking at the walls and looked, instead, at the Doctor. “You are, I assure you, better off without your ridiculous coat, but if you want to search all nine hundred and forty-two rooms, please, be my guest. It would actually be a great help to me if you did. The billiard room has been missing for almost six months. I would be _very_ grateful if you’d found it for me,” he added, moving closer. “You might even say we were, at last,” he stroked one of the Doctor’s blue lapels, smiled up at him, “ _even_.” He leaned sardonically on the last word, and, with heavy hearts, the Doctor realised that not only was he was not going to get his property back, but the Master wasn’t even going to try and grope him properly. _Not even,_ indeed. The cheek of it.

“I see,” he said, pulling the lapel away from the Master. “I suppose I’ll be off then. Thanks for,” the Master raised an eyebrow, and the Doctor frowned and stepped away from him. “Well. Yes, anyway, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” the Master said.

“Goodbye,” the Doctor said again, but more meaningfully. He looked at the Master, who smirked back, but still made no move to stop him leaving.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” the Doctor said, and, grabbing the Master by his velvet jacket, he pulled the other Time Lord roughly towards him and crushed their mouths together, pushed his tongue down the Master’s throat.

Well, he thought as the Master laughed and slid his hands into the Doctor’s trousers, they both deserved it. Even if the wretched man still had his coat.

*

By the time the Master awoke, the Doctor was gone. Instead, where his insufferable, curly-haired head had been the night before was a note which read:

 _Dear Master,  
I have taken the liberty of removing my coat from where you had (ever so cunningly) hidden it under this bed (I don’t believe you wanted it at all). Do not expect me to give it back: I’ve missed it terribly.  
I have also taken the liberty of removing your jacket. Do not expect me to give this back either. Velvet doesn’t (ahah) suit you.  
Try to stay out of trouble. I know you won’t.  
Yours, Doctor.  
P.S. You may keep the waistcoat. I have several._

With a lazy smile, the Master crumpled the paper and threw it over the side of the bed. He had been meaning to get a new jacket anyway, he reflected, and went back to sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sartorial Differences (The Passion In Your Fashion Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/189734) by [Aris Merquoni (ArisTGD)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArisTGD/pseuds/Aris%20Merquoni)




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